


Dissociation

by TeaForNone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaForNone/pseuds/TeaForNone
Summary: Not everybody in the FBI is a badass double agent. Sam Stein is in administration and yearning for action. Hopefully, he knows a certain someone who can prepare him for the field. (Pre-season 1)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Destroy and Build Again" but it can be read on its own :) Woop woop

Not everybody in the FBI was a badass double agent. The FBI was like every office, with data, paperwork, reports, typos in reports. Sam wrote nipple instead of nibble. Again. His only ray of sunshine was the game "Lifeline" on his phone and, toilet break after toilet break, he was helping this imaginary astronaut on a distant moon. And the astronaut just broke his ankle. Great.

This how Sam spent his days: at work. Typing his time away. Typing his life away. No thought needed, he typed the reports that somebody else thought for him. The only task for which he needed half a brain was when he checked for typos in FBI reports. Before and after that, he wasn't there. His sight stopped registering his surroundings – except the screen. It was him and the screen. Him and his mind and the screen. He'd decide to make coffee, and then wake up to find the coffee done, wondering where those minutes have gone. He felt detached, disconnected, at a distance from the world, like watching a movie from afar. Watching it play out.  
At the end of the day, after 8 hours in his own head, he would leave the office with the false feeling of satisfaction. In the bus home, after twenty minutes in his own head, looking in the abyss, his eyes would suddenly snap back to life and fix something real. The braid of the girl in front of him. The trees alongside the road. The sad hot dog left to rot by a bench. It would shock him out of his mind, to notice he was away so long. To notice there was a world out there he was blind to. He would swear never to dissociate for so long again. Never to leave again. He would swear to try to be more mindful, more present. And the next day, everything repeated itself.

And then he'd see Frank. Frank kept him on his toes. He was a break from routine, never there when expected, always there when unexpected. But it's been two weeks now. Surely the guy was on a deadly road-trip somewhere.

-

His colleague Sandra was standing in front of his desk – For how long now? He had no idea -- with a bunch of files under her armpit. It was still hot for September, Indian Summer with breaks of rain, and Sam was always afraid she would sweat on the papers.

"You're seeing someone, Stein?"

"That's usually how eyes work."

"Really? Because you wrote ect instead of etc. Again." She said, showing a file.

"What do you want me to say? My latin's a bit rusty, I haven't been in Ancient Rome in awhile."

Sandra drops the files on Sam's desk and puts her hand on it for effect. Most of the thing she ever did was for effect.

"I can help you meet someone."  
"I'm seeing someone."

Sandra winces. "With that tie? Really?"

Sam looked town at his boring-ass tie. "It's brown. Like my eyes."

"You're single as shit, Stein."

Sam glanced at his phone. "Aaand my astronaut died. Thank you, Sandra."

-

One of the best things about being in a relationship, is that you get to tell everybody about it. You get to change your Facebook statue. You get to go to your high-school reunion sipping mimosas and laughing. You get to force people to appreciate you because they see you being appreciated by someone else.  
The one thing when you're in a relationship with a supposed-to-be-dead-criminal, is that you can do none of those things. They couldn't even go to the camera-infested movie theaters. And if, on top of that, you already had the reputation of a sore mac-and-cheese eating loser, well, that was a hard thing to break. Especially if you were still eating mac-and-cheese alone most nights. That night, Sam walked home from work. His car was at the garage (overused), the taxi on strike (underpaid) and the transit was a no go (overcrowed). Fall was here, with rain, back pain and the smell of red maples, always faint. Frank's flat was actually closer from here. He knew that. He knew that because from time to time, he'd go check if Frank was there. He would do the knock, with no reply.  
Until today.

“That you?”, came out as a grunt.

Frank was cleaning guns when Sam walked in, wet, like the first day he went in his flat. The place was tidier now and slightly more functional.

“Shit, it's good to see you,” Fran said, staring. He looked rough, like he had been camping for a couple of weeks and forgot the tent. His face had small cuts sprinkled all over.

“Christ, what happened?” said Sam, putting his coat and satchel away.

“C'mon here,” whispered Frank. He always needed touch after not seeing Sam for awhile, while Sam needed talk. Sam tried to take his tie off, depressed by the weather, tired by his walk. It didn't budge. Frank lighted himself a cigarette and pointed at the stool next to him. Sam sat, took the cigarette from Frank's and started to relax. Frank undid his tie. Sam stared at the gun on the table.

“You know those times when the girlfriend ask her guy if she's fat in this dress, and the dude says “Of course not”, even tho, yeah, the girl ate five cannelloni last night and it showed--”

“A question anytime soon?” interrupted Frank, taking the tie away and putting it aside.

“Did you use that gun recently?”

“'course not,” Frank replied, shoving the gun on his waistband. “But--”, he continued, pointing at Sam, and raising an eyebrow “Five cannelloni?”

“I was starving, it was Sandra't first week after maternity leave, we all went to a restaurant and the office paid.”

Sam gave the cigarette back. They didn't smoke a lot, and only when they were together. This pack is already two months old. Frank took a drag, staring at Sam, who poured himself water in a former jam jar.

“How's work?”, asked Frank. He would always ask it quickly, between a couple of short, sharp breathes, like he was afraid to show he cared.

“I stared at a screen for about eight hours. Then I ate a sandwich in front of my screen, and I can't even recall the taste of it, was it goat cheese, was it spiked tomato? Who knows? Certainly not me!” Frank's mouth curled up in a smirk, his eyes going up, never on the same thing twice. Sam kept on ranting, and ranting. And Frank stayed quiet, and listened.

“Man, I need a shower,” said Sam, eventually. “And so do you.” Sam points at a crust of dried blood on Frank's temple.

“I'm good,” Frank said.

“Good as in... you nearly died two hours ago but are still alive nonetheless?” Sam finished his water, and stood up.

“'course not.”

“'course not. I get it, I can be pretty intimidating when I'm naked-- But not wanting to shower with me?--”

“I ain't said that.”

Sam stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, walking away to the bathroom. But a thought hit him and he turned to glance at Frank, who was still sitting on his shabby stool.

“You can't stand, can you?”

Silence.

“Broken leg?”

Frank looked away. “Nah. The ankle. Just sprained.”

-

There was something about a hot shower after a long walk under the rain that just screamed pleasure. His muscle were thankful. Frank joined right after, a crutch squeezed in under his armpit. And Frank looked at him, the way his eyelashes would catch a water drop, the way his lip would part. Well, it was worth all the waiting and all the worrying.  
He stared at the pearls of water dripping down Frank's broken nose. Such a nose, he thought. Such a character. Sam felt a bit ashamed that his own nose wasn't broken. He felt a bit ashamed that his own ankle wasn't swollen. He was FBI but next to that guy, he felt like a couch potato. Like he wasn't doing his job properly. Like he wasn't doing enough. Never enough.

They shared the blissful space under the shower head. Frank was badly beaten-up, bruises over his left side, more broken class cuts and his ankle was swollen. Still, under the beam of water, Frank kissed Sam tentatively. With the tips of his lips. And Sam would immediately grab his neck and go for the kill, go to the kiss, with such strength that Frank almost lost his balance. Only for finding it again and push Sam against the tiles and kiss him until his mouth turned numb.

-

After they dried off, Sam checked Frank's ankle on the beat-up sofa.

“So you thought, eh, I'm going to sprain my ankle and it's going to be hilarious.”

Sam stood and grabs some frozen peas from the freezer and threw it at Frank, who caught it and applied it on his ankle.

“Wait until the sweelling stop and then bandage it. I think? I don't know anything about ankles. I know about blisters, if you ever got any.” Sam buttoned up his shirt and grabbed his tie. When unable to move, Frank usually get bored and frustrated quickly. It's been two minutes and he was already fidgeting.

“You leavin'?”

They usually spend time at Sam's space, more comfy, queen size bed, etc. Not a camping bed and a sofa with springs stabbing you in the back. Sam puts his coat on. “You want me to--”, he began to ask.

“Nah, it's fine,” Frank interrupted quickly, looking anywhere but at him. “Go.”

“... grab takeout. I was gonna to the Malaysian downstairs.” said Sam, with a teasing smirk.

“Huh. Yeah?”

“Unless you want me to go home.”

“Nah. Nasi lemak. Extra nuts. With the spicy sauce.”

-

Sam came back to Frank trying to watch season 1 of the Bodyguard on his tablet, but couldn't figure out Sam's password and was being less than gentle with it. Sam had to take the tablet away fearing Frank would throw it against the wall. No patience. They ate nasi lemak.

“Where the hell have you been anyway?”, asked Sam. Frank shrugged.

“You're not going to answer that one, are you?”

“Not to a fed,” Frank replied, taking a bite.

“I'm in admin duty, Frank. Show some respect or I'll misspless your name.”

“Shaking in my boots.”

“Good. I won't be admin long anyway.”

Frank stopped eating, frowning. Sam continued. “You know that physical test you gotta do to check if you didn't become a couch potato since you got in?” Frank nodded, they had the same at the army.

“Mine is coming up. If I do well, I might ask to be transferred.”

“In the field?”

“No, in dance duty. Of course, in the field. I got in to do investigations, not sit on my ass all day.”

Frank shook his head, disapproving. “Ain't a good idea, Sam.”

“Same can be said about talking with your mouth full. Gross.”

“You ain't needin' nobody's approval, yeah? You're the hardest working asshole in there.”

“I don't want to be in there, I want to be out there.”

“Nah, you don't.” He said it with the pain of someone who's been out there. “You don't.”

“Maybe you're right.

“Huh.”

“Maybe I'm not made for that.”

“That right.”

“So why don't you train me?”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day was a similar work day for Sam. It was him and the screen. Him and the files. Him and the spread sheets. He forgot his computer glasses at home and his eyes grew sore looking at the screen. The office was badly lighted, some lightbulb weren't working and the Venetian blinds were never letting much light in. So it was only blue light on his face. He felt as if he peeled onions for hours. At that moment, he knew he was deep down in administrative shit. At that moment, he knew he had to get out.

So he went to this boss, told her he wanted to be in the field. To participate in investigations. To feel a bit useful. She said she heard that over and over again. A lot of officers wanted to go out of admin, but a lot rejoiced in it, too. A comfy chair, coffee, toilet breaks, no stress, no sweat. "Cozy", she added. 

"I'm not here to cozy, I'm here to make a difference."

"Which you can do. Here. Organizing information."

"I want to create information, I want--"

"Okay let's be honest five minutes here, Agent Stein. If you were a 6 feet guy with sharp senses and top knots skills in the field, I'd agree with you, you're wasting your potential here. But you're not. You've got a good brain, humor, most patience than most, perseverance, you're perfect here. People are excited to work with you, and people here are usually not excited about anything."

"So I'm your own personal cheer-up clown."

"More like our own sarcastic cheerleader. You're among peers. What do you want to do on the field? You think they're going to laugh at your jokes and slap you on the back?"

Sam didn't really know what to reply to that. He liked to be liked, yes. But he liked to be useful too. And more than that, he wanted to be liked for his skills, for his abilities, for his brain – more than he was for his bad jokes.

“You bring smiles and personality to the office, we couldn't do without you.”

Sam wanted to say fuck smiles and personality. But instead he said please. He said, consider it. He said, he can't keep me here because I'm funny. You can keep me here like a pet monkey. She glanced at him. Her mascara was too thick on her lower eyelashes, and when she closed her eyes tightly to think, it printed itself on her skin. Then she pursed her lips, and the lipstick would crackle and make tiny waves, tiny prints, on her mouth. A whole new texture. Her blue eyes were intent on Sam. The wrinkles around her mouth soothed.

“Alright”, she said. “Your physical session is approaching. I suspect you knew that. Tell you what, I'll check your score and if... I say if, you seems fit and determined, that is, if you blow the score to pieces, I can put the word in.”

Sam cracked a smile, overjoyed.

“But I'm going to miss that smile, Agent Stein.”

“I'll have a portrait of me made for your desk, don't you worry.”

-

The whole way home, Sam could see himself scream FBI, bang a door down, say “hands where I can see them” and take off the bad guy's mask and look at them in the eye. He'd smashed that test session. He'd train and smash some world records.

That was what he told himself. Then he arrived at Frank's place, who was doing insane push ups on the floor. With just one hand, with just one foot. With his strained ankle up to the sky. Well, Sam's New Year Resolution to stop comparing himself to others was down in the shits. In this case, it wasn't even comparison, it was just observation and that was enough. Frank stood up and cleaned up his sweat with a towel.

“Thanks God you don't have, like, a sprained ankle...”, said Sam.

“How'd go?”

“Good. She'll let me try. Any thought about what I asked you?” he asked, picking up a takeout menu from the fridge. Silence. Nervous, he kept talking. “I mean how hard can that test be? If you can do it with your spaghetti arms, I don't see why I couldn't.”

Frank snorted at that.

“Come on,” pleaded Sam, turning to face him.“Help me, I have the breathing of a cow during a heat wave and I can run as fast as a corgi if I really, really hurry.”

Frank glanced by the window, which he did when he was thinking and thinking. He glanced at Sam and then toward the widow again. Finally he grabbed the takeout menu from Sam's hands, teared it in halves.

“I'll make you spit blood, you heard? Ain't gonna be easy.”

-

Five minutes later, Sam was in front of an appealing salad while Frank was eating mexican.

“Okay, I'll... watch you eat a massive burrito and I won't even care. I won't even want it. I'm smelling it, and it smells of heart disease and obesity, so do you.”

“Good. Cuz that how's gonna be from now on. Dinner's salad.”

“Cool. Cool. Pain and frustration are nothing to me.”

“That right?”

“If I'm failing that test, I'm going to be stuck at that desk forever, complimenting Sandra on those disgusting zucchini cookies and drinking bad coffee... And that, my friend...”, he took a bite of salad. “... is pain.”

“Yeah? Wait til tomorrow.”

-

Sam wasn't even chubby, he just had a soft belly that would show at the edge of his belt like a milkshake about to overflow. He had strengh, deep down, but he wasn't a vanity person. He hated the gym, prefer to bike in nature. At family dinners, his aunt always made a big show of serving him smaller portions. The worst was his aunt's complicit smile. The smile that said “can we agree this is better for you?” And that smile, with the plate, made his skin crawl. But he said nothing, he took it, he ate it. And that how they do it, not with words but with feelings. What they make you feel. How they think you should feel about yourself. And you didn't feel that way about yourself yesterday. Or the day before that. Or the day before that. But now, you do.

The next day was Sam's day off. Frank woke him up at 4am and they drove across town in Frank's beat up SUV. The car window was open, Frank's elbow peaking out. It was still dark out but the shy dashboard glow inside the car highlighted his face, his broken nose. He was, much like his car, powerful and imposing but pretty beat up all the same. If cars corresponded to their owners, what did that say about Sam ? Slow to start, big, old, empty and probably very polluting. It could carry a lot of people inside but probably won't carry them very far. Meanwhile, Frank could probably take you anywhere, through bumps, through rivers, mountains and muddy roads.

They arrived in an empty football field, circled by a running track.

“Jeez, it's way too cold.”, said Sam, slamming the car door shut. “And it's raining a bit.”

Not full on rain, but a drizzle.

“'s good for blood circulation.”, replies Frank curtly.

“I have great blood circulation.”

“Yeah? Then start running.”

Sam warmed up. And Sam started running. Frank sat there on the bleachers, sipping coffee from a thermos. Meanwhile, Sam was dripping buckets, breathing harshly, feeling his lung burning and the back of his throat getting raw. After two rounds, Sam circled back to him.

“You're not running with me?”

“Nope. You done 10 rounds?”

“Y'know what, for a first... ah, for a first session, we should take it slow, right?”

Frank's gaze didn't budge. “Ten rounds.”

“Can I walk the next one?”

Frank took a toothpick out of his breast pocket and started to munch it. He looked up at the track, then back at Sam, raising his voice slightly. “You ain't stopping now, c'mon.”

“Fine”, grumbled Sam, whose breath produced big clouds of condensation.

Sam went on to running again. His legs drove him back to Frank after five more rounds.

“Let's... stop. Just, resting a bit.”

Frank rolled his eyes, jaw crisping.

“That all you got?”

“Chill, Frank. I'm just not feelin'--”

“I don't give a shit what you're feeling, get back.”

“The fuck you ate this morning? Grumpy Cat protein bars?”

“You wanna go in the field, hm? You wanna be too slow, get shot? Cuz they won't care you wanna rest, out there, you'll be dead the second you even think of slowing down.”

“It's just training.”

“Three more rounds.”

“I... I can't. And you fucking know that..." Sam could hear the toothpick break under Fran's teeth. “I'll go... at my pace. I'll grab a cab.”

Frank took his toothpick out, looked around, chewing the inside of this cheek.

“Go home,” Sam added before walking away. Slowly. At his pace.

-

Sam went home – his place, not Frank's – and took a long shower. I was still upset and he was the kind of person to stay upset for a very long time. He went for his runs every morning before work, same tracks, shine or rain. He took his time and tried to stay longer everytime.

Once or twice, he felt someone watching and he knew it was Frank, checking up on him. But not daring to come and chat. Once or twice, Sam would flash his middle finger in that direction. And then wondered by Frank didn't come and chat.

He felt a sickness coming to him since his first run and there it was now, in full force. At work, it felt like a wind draft would always sneak its way to his desk, like a chill would always crawl under his skin – even when the heat was on and he was wearing two sweaters. It was a shiver, it was a spin and it was a light nausea. He didn't have a stuffy nose but an empty one in a fragile way, like it could start bleeding any minute. Because of the training, he had muscle pains too and walked awkwardly. No more running in the rain. He had to go to the gym. That nightmare place where everybody looked perfect and knew exactly what to do with all those insane machines. Where was he suppose to put his legs? Was he supposed to pull or push? Hell if he knew! Today he was in a crappy mood. He overslept, so decided to train after work in the FBI gym, using the couple machines he knew how to use. After an hour of this and that, he thought about the sad salad he had for lunch and how he should have eaten more. Then he went home, dead tired, sick, and depressed. And it was only Wednesday. A week since he had words from Frank. Physical deeds were always a good way to numb an aching heart, so that was he did. He changed into an oversized Hanukkah sweater and a jogging when his phone rang. A quiet ding.

A text: “Can I come in?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam ignored his phone for five minutes. Then it was tiring and Sam didn't have much energy left. He typed:

“Sick as a dog, contagious. Another day?”

“plz”

“ok fine”

It was always like that. The exchange would begin with rather good grammar, everything capitalized, defenses were up, shields were rising. But the connection was made and they melted like butter.

Ten minutes later, a knock on the door. Sam opened and stepped aside to let Frank in. He was wearing a torn hoodie with a worn-out leather bomber jacket on top. His heavy lips were pursed tightly together and the top of his hair was messy and started to curl slightly. But what Sam noticed first was the bruises and the limp. 

Sam closed the door behind him. Frank didn't sit and left his hands in his jacket's pockets. They were shoved in there, intent, as he looked around the place as if he'd never been before.

“What do you want?”

“I ain't apologizing.”

Sam grabbed the front door handle again and opened it with a “door's this way” gesture. Frank closed it, putting his fist on it. Not going anywhere.

“I told you how it'was goin' to be, we agreed on that.”

“We agreed on training. Not burning myself out.”

“I want you to survive.”

“God, be honest with yourself five minutes! You want me to stay bored, knitting scarves in admin.” Sam gesticulated witn energy and suddenly stopped -- wincing from muscle pain. 

“You good?”

“Just forgot to stretch, I felt like shit and now--” Sam laid down on the sofa, the back of his head against the armrest. Frank took his hands out of his pockets and sat at the end of the sofa, taking Sam's feet and putting them on his knees. Sam pulled a face at the coldness of the contact. Frank noticed and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He put them on Sam's feet again.

Frank began massaging his feet, strongly, like sport therapists do. Sam winced, retracted his foot, Frank grabbed it again.

“You got tension, you gotta break it down.”

Sam said nothing, just winced and tried to pull his feet from time to time, for Frank to finally grab a leg. His strong fingers dug in his muscles like it was dough. God it hurt. God it was such a relief. Sam didn't want to talk, he didn't want him to stop. He remembered the instructor at the gym telling him about body's tissues, lesions, overexertion and overuse, but he didn't listen. After two minutes, Sam completely melted on the sofa, his aching legs feeling a bit like legs again instead of robots parts needing oiling.

Frank stopped.

“Mor'” said Sam, in a sharp breath.

A silence. Frank moved closer and began working on the tender space under the tight, close to the knee.

“You a good shot?”, he asked after a while.

Sam thought about it. “Yeah.”

“Close combat?”

Sam winced. “I don't know. Why?”

“How ab't... you pass that exam. Your way. After that, I'll help with close combat.”

“It's what you're worried about, isn't it? That I'm gonna get stabbed like a pig?”, sneered Sam, who found the notion hilarious for some reason.

Frank remained serious. “Find that funny?”

“It's just... I'm still gonna be the junior with the small desk. I'm probably not going to see lots of action. But more investigation... Do you want to coach me on that or do you conceive I might be good enough?”

Frank breathed out. “Yeah. Well” A silence. “I just...” Frank mumbled his way through each word, looking lost, looking confused, looking away. He stopped massaging Sam a while ago, his hands massaging one another instead. “Close combat training, and...I'm ready to compromise on other things.”

That peaked Sam's attention. His back straightens and he leaned in toward Frank, curiosity in his eyes and eyebrows saying “I'm listening.”

“Going out.”

Sam leaned on. “Outside? As in, getting drunk in a restaurant and going to the movies”

“Just the movies.”

“Subtitles?”

“Don't push it.”

-

Frank had his hood on, with a baseball cap underneath. Meanwhile, Sam stared at the poster of tonight's “throwback comedy” retrospective.

“It's going to be subtitles,” Sam announced.

Frank frowned and pointed at the poster. “Nah, it says “The City of Fear.””

“La Cité de la Peur, French.”

“Fuck me.”

 -

And before he knew it, Frank was inside a tiny movie theatre, small staff, no camera, last row, watching a french movie. Thank God they got two pints of beers tucked in the armchairs. But, to Frank's surprise, the movie was pretty funny in a surrealist way and he found himself laughing several times, a glutteral laugh he did while shaking his head. His eyes would glitter and his teeth would show. Meanwhile, Sam was elated, obviously knowing the movie, sometimes uttering the lines, too.

They went home half drunk from booze, half drunk from happiness. When they walked in the narrow back alley to go to Frank's place (it was closer), Frank gently pushed Sam toward the back door and kissed him silly. They kissed several times in the emergency staircase too, until they finally reached Frank's room. And then they had sex on the kitchen table.

-

Sam passed his physical exam easily. Even his boss was slightly impressed. She said she'd pass around the word, fill up the paperwork, see if there was any opening and shove him in there. Might take a couple weeks, might take a couple mouths. Be patient.

Sam wasn't patient. He was the kind of person wondering, what's next? And he was the kind of person who had trouble enjoying the present. He spent his 20s missing his childhood and therefore, missed his 20s entirely only to spend his 30s missing them. Some day, he was afraid he was never going to feel anything ever again. And then Frank would show up with a bag of takeout and he would feel, and feel, and feel.

So that's when he said:

“Let's do your close combat training.”

-

They went to that abandoned box ring in the early morning and trained boxing.

Frank's hands were up, his gaze intent, showing the punches, explaining patiently. Sam listened closely and followed instructions.

And then they fought. Slowly, for the sake of demonstration.

Sam avoided a couple blows. Then Frank went slightly faster, and slightly faster and Sam followed, until his mind wandered somewhere else. Frank stopped. Sam took a second to register why he wasn't been hit at anymore.

“Tired already?” asked Sam, gloves against his cheeks, ready to defend himself. 

“Chrissake, concentrate.”

“I'm here.”

“Nah for a second you wasn't.”

Sam couldn't help but micmic Frank's voice: “That second is gonna'cost yar life.”

Frank shook his head.

“No?” asked Sam.

“You only need a half-second for that. I'm gonna teach you to be reactive.”

Sam scoffed. 

From now on, it was purely dodge and stop. And Frank began slow and went faster, and faster, and faster. And Sam held on, became pretty sweaty trying to dodge the blows, to react to Frank's body movements, side-steps, tilt and bow, then Sam became a bit cocky too and Frank followed that boost of confidence right along. The air whooshed against Sam's cheek, his tights would burn, his lung would shrink, his breath would shatter.

At first, Frank didn't fight. Not really.

Then he was

Then Frank got lost in between the blows, then he couldn't stop, then he forgot where he was, what he was doing. Because he didn't need to know anything to do what he was doing. He welcomed the excuse to do it but he didn't need it. It was him and the violence, him and the power, him feeling the rage and the pleasure. When suddenly, you're not anywhere, you're in a world of feeling and colours and memories.

It was the same world Sam entered when he was doing the same task in the office, lost in the screen. It was a world Frank entered when he couldn't stop hitting, when he would huff and puff and grunts. His veins were showing and his jaw tightened. And then he felt it, a wetness on his fist. And it was hot too, but he couldn't feel that, because every inch of his self was burning, too.

He opened his eyes. They were never closed but he never saw. Now he saw. He realized he stopped hitting because the air wasn't resisting. Because Sam was down. Frank felt a cold breeze running under his skin and lodge itself in his head, like a migraine. He felt on his knees near Sam, whose nose was gushing blood on his shirt.

“am ok” he said, like kids do when they fall and their parents panic. “'m ok. Is just de noze”

Sam put his hands against his nose and winced. It hurt like hell. So he let his nose alone and abandoned the idea of stopping the blood coming out. It would stop eventually. It would dry. It would get swollen. It would look nasty, and then it would heal. Frank had his hand against his shoulder, talking to him in a funny distorted voice. Some blood has dripped into Sam's ear. And he'd repeat “am ok, just da noze.”

A broken nose. Frank cleaned it, a terrible guilt in his eyes. He would squirt his eyes, trying to be as gentle as possible with the tip of his pad. It was impressive, but once all the blood was gone, it wasn't so worrying. A cut on the bridge of the nose, and the nose itself was slightly swollen, slightly out of place.

“Looked like you were somewhere else.”

Frank knew that, knew he wasn't been here. “I was, I--” begged Frank, eyes down.

“Maybe you need to concentrate a bit more,” continues Sam with a mocking voice.

Frank's eyes flicked up, his mouth fighting on a tight smile. “Fuck Sam. I bashed your face and you crack a joke?”

“What am I s'ppose to do? I don't have my handsome face anymore, I'll have to rely on my personality for now on.”

“Listen, I--”

“I know.”

“I--”

“I know”.

-

Sam had to wear a Nasal Splint and now everybody would think he did nose surgery. And the worst: they acted like they were glad he at last decided to do it. Talk about confidence boost. He didn't have to lie, he said he did some boxing and the other guy was bigger.

-

Life went on. At home, Frank would sit in his own thoughts and everything would marinate in his head like a slow-cooker always on. Frank would look Sam over and think again.

And that's how it happened, the moment that defined his life. The moment that defined the end of it.

After that, Frank didn't coach Sam anymore. They stopped the close combat exercise.

Sam had a new position, a new job, a new thing to look forward to. It's how life worked, you climb at the top of a low level department and then they transfer you, and you're at the bottom level of a higer department. And you're making the coffee again, and you're looking at a spreadsheet, again.

So the coffee's got to be good. And the spreadsheet's got to be neat. Until he went home with good news. 

“I got assigned! First day on a case. I'm going to be the junior of an agent. Name's Madani.”

-

The End

 


End file.
